


Quoth The Raven

by Windhouse



Category: Original Work
Genre: 'I will take a hammer and FIX the boy toy', Aftermath of Torture, BDSM, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Blood and Injury, Dark, Dom/sub, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fantasy, Femdom, Forced Prostitution, Hurt/Comfort, Kink Negotiation, Master/Slave, Not Beta Read, POV First Person, Past Sexual Abuse, Past Torture, Pegging, Royalty, Slavery, Unhealthy Relationships, Work In Progress, can you tell that boys with long hair are My Type yet, mentions of past underage
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-23
Updated: 2019-04-25
Packaged: 2020-01-25 15:47:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18577594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Windhouse/pseuds/Windhouse
Summary: Maria is the young daughter of a prestigious Duke, living in the midst of the Vermilion Capitol: a society that accepts and encourages the kidnapping of innocent people, and the selling of slaves. She wants no part of it. But she may not have a choice.





	1. Chapter 1

It made my lip curl. For all their gold and pearls and expensive dinners, the social upper crust never failed to disgust me.

 

Don’t get me wrong, i’m not one to judge: I am the daughter of _the_ Duke of Perran, the consult and close friend of King Jameson. I’ve enjoyed many luxuries in this life that most can’t afford to: massive townhouses with lavish carpets, decadent silk dresses, delicate jewelry inlaid with emeralds and opals. All that is well and good. I can hardly complain about being high-enough nobility that our family gets invited to the annual galas at the King’s castle overlooking the sprawling Vermilion Capitol.

 

What really made me sick were the _slaves_.

 

It was a common practice in our country. Exceedingly, horrifically common. But it was something I could _never_ adjust to, something I will _never_ understand. Nearly every family as a wealthy as company-owner merchant owns several. And they were all treated like dogs: like animals to be used and abused. Work slaves, cook slaves, travel slaves. Pleasure slaves. I’d see them, every day, accompanying their owners. Carrying their luggage, running their errands. Sold in the square like _livestock._

 

The thought brought bile to the back of my throat. I shut the book I had been reading, curled up on the windowsill of my room. The sun shone through the glass, beaming through the small grove of oaks that were just thin enough for me to see the town down below. I enjoyed moving to this sprawling estate with my mother and father, I really did… even if it meant I had to uproot my whole life to move just a few miles closer to the castle. But it was for father’s work, so I couldn’t contest it. _When have I ever had a say in anything, anyways_ , I thought distantly as I looked out at Vermillion Capitol. It was mid-day, and the streets would be bustling with people in the marketplace. I hopped up, smoothing my dress and hunting through a few drawers until I found my shoulder wrap. The weather was perfect for an outing: and to be honest, I don’t think I could manage another second of the echoing silence of this mansion.

 

I grabbed my coin purse and was out the bedroom door, clipping my hair back with a citrine-encrusted barrette and hearing nothing but the soft footfalls of my shoes on the polished tile floors.

 

“Monet, I’m headed to market, do we need anything?” I said as I passed a young woman with a rag in her hand, scrubbing a floor-to-ceiling mirror. I loved Monet. She was bought - _ugh, bought-_ by my father when she and I were only eleven. We had grown up together: someone for me to talk to and be served by (considering that mother and father were never around). It pained me to see her light, her true beauty and kindness, and know that nobody would never see her as my equal. As we had grown I went to enormous lengths every day to coax that frightened girl, torn from her parents, out of her shell to become my steadfast friend. To this day I would rather remove my own fingers than treat her in any other way than with the respect she deserves.

 

Monet smiled, wiping a strand of blonde hair away from her sweat-dewed face. “Not that I can think of, my lady. But I wouldn’t recommend going out. Your father told me to keep you here until evening comes.”

 

My heart sank, and I loosened my grip on my coin purse in defeat. Of course. He’s out all day again, which is no surprise, but he’s probably going to call for a carriage to take me somewhere tonight, _again_ \- probably a ball or a fancy dinner that a random city noble is hosting. ‘It’s important to forge these connections, Maria! You can’t always be shunning those around you, you’ll end up in ruin.’ I can hear his voice chastise me in the back of my head. I sighed. Was it really so much to ask for to just have a day to get familiar with the town, to buy some new books and relax?

 

Monet saw the way I hung my head and stilled from her work. “I wouldn’t be too put out!” She added, clearly trying to cheer me up. “His Grace seemed very excited about tonight. Maybe it will be more enjoyable than you think.”

 

I appreciate the sentiment. “Thanks, Monet.” I said softly, wrapping her up in a soft hug before letting her return to her duties. On my slow, sad, and resistant walk back to my room, I heard the shuffle of footsteps in the hall and quickly rounded the corner to avoid them. My parents had… other slaves, besides Monet. A lot of them were quite old, having served my family for decades. But they were not friendly. Their gazes were impassive, their skin was rough and tired from years of enslavement, of repression. Their work was eerily robotic. I hated to say it but… sometimes, they _scared_ me. So with as little noise as possible I skirted the hallway and crept up the back steps to the second floor, locking myself in my room and falling backwards onto my bed. The worst part, about _all_ of this, was there was nothing I could _do._ Sure, I could gather up some coin and some food, press it into the hands of a slave and tell them to _run_. Maybe it worked for a few days. But then they tried to leave the city. Or stepped in front of the wrong guard. Everyone got caught. Always. No slave that had tried to run, tried to hide, was free.

 

I had tried several times and it always ended the same way.

 

I grabbed a pillow from above my head and pushed it over my eyes, willing myself with everything I had to fall asleep and wake up when it was night. I just wanted to get whatever was planned for me over with.

 

* * *

 

I was awoken hours later by a knock on my door, and practically fell off the bed to answer it, desperately combing my hair back with my fingers to make it look presentable. I twisted the gilded door knob and swung open the great big slab of oak, nearly bumping into the tall figure of my father in the hallway.

 

“Oh good, you’ve dressed already.” He said, tone clipped and impersonal. My father, in all his moussed mustache and pressed garment ‘perfection’, was not an emotionally attached man. I think I have had cats that cared for me more than he did. He unceremoniously thrust a silver and garnet necklace into my hands. “Come on, my dear. The carriage is waiting outside.”

 

_Called it._

 

“Where are we going, father?” I said to his retreating form, struggling to keep up with his long pace with stringing the necklace around my neck. _Dressing me up like a doll and sending me to be paraded around as always_.

 

“Duchess Vera is hosting a private auction at her homestead.” He responded as we descended the stairs.

 

My stomach dropped. I missed a step, dress shoe slipping on the sleek stone. I barely caught myself on the polished railing. “... You know how I feel about this. I _don’t_ want to go.”

 

 _That_ got father’s attention. He turned around to me at the entrance to the entryway, frown hidden under his mustache and brow furrowed. “And you know how _I feel_ .” He rumbled out with more irritation than I expected. He seemed to catch himself being overly emotional, pinching the bridge of his nose for a second with a white-gloved hand before sighing. “Maria. Darling. You’re not a young girl anymore… you’re a woman. I could excuse Monet being your sole companion back then, but not anymore. You can’t keep acting like this! This is a part of our _culture_ , a sign of our status inherited down the long line of our proud family.” As I joined him in the entryway he put a comforting hand on my shoulder. It felt foreign. “We can’t afford any social mishaps in this town. It’s a fresh start. I don’t want people to start to talk like they did back in Braunsville.”

 

My mouth soured. By talk, he meant the gossip the other nobles whispered about behind our backs: _Maria doesn’t appreciate the companions her father gives her. I heard Maria_ _sympathizes_ _with the beasts! Maria only has one slave, and she’s a_ _scullery_ _maid!_

 

“Just… just pick a consort or two, and bring them with you into town and to a few parties. We’re hardly strapped for coin, you can have any you want. And, darling,” He lifted up my chin and I quickly schooled my expression to be less livid, “If it makes you feel better I can have them locked up in the stables the rest of the time. You’ll never even have to see them.”

 

I wanted to scream in his stupid face, shake him, jump into his brain and _show_ him how terrifying that sentence was. _That’s not what bothers me. You’re all monsters._ But all I could manage was a tight smile that didn’t reach my eyes, and a sharp nod. He gave me a pat on the head as two slaved opened up the double doors for us as we walked into the warm night air.

 

I couldn’t say a thing as father helped me into the carriage and shut the door behind himself. After all, it wouldn’t help anyone for me to be locked in my own room again for days on end, and that’s exactly what would happen if I talked back. I stifled a sigh and pulled back the carriage curtain, watching the scenery fly by and trying to ignore the second horse behind us, carrying the barred slave transporter carriage.

  
  


Duchess Vera’s mansion was opulent, nestled in a valley a half-hour’s ride away from the city limits , surrounded by ancient towering trees and settled next to a serene lake. I watched with no small amount of nerves as our carriages pulled up through the same deep tracks as everyone else’s, stopping outside of the open iron gates. Two server boys dressed in sharp green and gold tassel uniforms hopped to open the carriage door, taking my hand and escorting me out through the small front garden and to the door. I felt my father’s hand on my shoulder, and heard the voices of may people greeting us and swallowing us into the party inside, but I almost couldn’t process it. All I felt was the cold and unrelenting fear of the fact that these people before me, smiling and laughing and eating, would be bidding on another human’s flesh and blood at the end of the night.

 

I slipped away from my father. He was so caught up in conversation that he didn’t notice my disappearance. Thankfully the unfamiliar halls of this estate were crowded with people, and I blended right in with my silken dress and sparkling jewelry.  It was comforting to see people without a slave at their side, before I realized with dulled horror that the only reason they didn’t have one with them was because they intended to buy one tonight. That was a thought I drowned in the nearest glass of wine I could get my hands on. I spent a good hour idly milling around, nibbling foods that were offered to me on silver trays, and taking in the sights. _There are a lot of portraits of men in this house for a single woman_ , I thought idly, looking at the massive canvases on Duchess Vera’s walls.

 

Then I happened to pass a hall with very high foot traffic. I nearly walked by it completely before I noticed the sign: a piece of paper attached to a gilded stand, a title written in curling silver ink. ‘Auction Exhibition Hall’. The clam hors d'oeuvre in my mouth turned to ash. _This is where they are kept_ , I thought, heart wrenching, _this is where they’re appraised and their fate is decided on for the rest of their lives_.

 

I drained the rest of my wine cup in one fell swoop before forcing myself to walk inside, my father’s command sitting heavy in the back of my brain.

 

The room inside was exactly what I feared it would be. It was as long as a dining hall, filled with people idly walking back and forth, examining slaves like they were interesting works of art.

 

Lining the room on either side were large wooden pedestals, about four feet in diameter and three feet off the ground. They looked incredibly heavy: it probably took upwards of four full-grown men to move each one. Standing on top of each one was a slave wearing shackles around their ankles that bolted into the wooden pedestals, then snaked upwards to connect to cuffs around their wrists. There wasn’t enough slack for them to move, and they had to stay perfectly still atop the pillars lest they fall and dislocate something from the chains.

 

It was a sickening display.

 

I moved numbly down the room, looking at the state of them all. Blindfolded, abused, cowering in on themselves and shying away from any noise that drew too close. Most of them were covered in fresh marks: red whip lines, jagged cuts, blossoming bruises. A woman in a red silk dress reached forward and brushed her finger against the foot of a stick-thin slave woman, laughing in surprise when the frighted chained girl let out a scared whimper and jerked away.

 

I passed a muscular old man, a middle aged woman with a scar on her shoulder, and a young girl who couldn’t have been above the age of sixteen. The next auction pedestal made me slow my walk to a standstill as I read the calligraphed description. ‘Lot 8. Responds to the name Raven. 6 foot 1. Companionship trained for 10+ years. Starting Bid: 10,000.’

 

On the pedestal was a man with a bloody nose. It dripped onto the hands that he had clasped in front of him despite the bruising on their knuckles. He was barefoot and dressed in loose flowing pants and a drawstring shirt. Shoulder length jet-black hair hung limply around his face, pressed flat by the tight blindfold around his eyes. _That_ ’s _probably where he earned his name from_ . I was frozen in front of him, walking him slowly shift from foot to foot, turning his head slightly back and forth, listening to the commotion of the hall. Being forced into companionship- no, not companionship, _prostitution_ \- for more than ten years… I couldn’t imagine the horror he’d gone through. The pain of having your mind, your body, your _soul_ stripped from you in such a lascivious way. In that moment the metal of my earrings clacked sharply as I turned my head to examine the slave’s scraped feet. He shrank backwards; for such a tall and lean fellow, he was cowering like a baby faun.

 

I knew at that exact second that I had to save him. I might not be able to grant him the freedom that he needs, that he deserves… but it would be better that watching him get sold away to some bored merchant who would end up using him, breaking him. I backed up, dragging my paralyzed gaze away from his sharp features, his pale skin, forcing myself to stop looking at the way he twitched and listened and waited helplessly. _Lot 8, lot 8, lot 8._ It became my mantra as I wove my way out of the room, ducking into the crowded main hall and beginning the arduous task of finding my father.

 

Fifteen minutes later I did; or rather, he found me. A large hand caught my wrist, and I whirled around.  


“There you are.” He said, sounding relieved as he started to walk us both in one direction, “The auction is just about to begin.”

 

I shoved another tight grin onto my face. “Perfect. Papa, I think I've settled on one I really want.”

 

His mouth opened in surprise as we walked. “Really? Darling, it makes me so happy to hear that. Which one?”

 

It was a struggle to make my voice remain neutral, to make sure my words didn’t betray my quivering nerves and molten disgust. “I would adore it if you got me lot 8. I’ve been dying to go to the marketplace but I just don’t feel safe there on my own! I’m sure if I had someone strong to protect me i’d be more willing to go all sorts of places.”

 

“What was the starting bid?” Father’s voice grew a little less booming as we entered the double doors of the auction room, finding seats on one of the many benches that had been moved in for this event.

 

“Ten thousand.” I replied, sounding as sweet and innocent as I could. That was an undeniably hefty sum for _any_ slave, and who knows how high the price would escalate.

 

Father squashed the beginnings of a grimace that were creeping onto his face. I just batted my eyes innocently, throat tight: if my suspicions were correct, he would say yes, just for the sake of placating us both. He cleared his throat for a moment, getting a better grip on the auction paddle. “...Fine.” He replied, a little terse.

 

“Thank you papa.” I said, and for once in my life I genuinely meant it. The thought of owning a slave made my stomach clench, but deep in my gut I wanted nothing more than to save that poor abused man in the other room from whatever horrors another auction member might lay upon him.

 

The bidding started. Lot after lot were paraded down the aisle and into the room by two assistants as Vera herself stood on the balcony overlooking the room, reading off the starting bids and details about each lot. A scribe next to her took down the offers and the names of the winners. Seeing these shackled people paraded up to the front, their faces falling as their sentences were read and they were sold off… it was heartbreaking. It was all I could do to hold my own composure. The knuckles on my hand were white with how hard I was clutching the hem of my dress.

 

“Lot eight!” Vera’s clear voice rang above the crowd. My back stiffened, and I twisted around to see Raven escorted into the room, still blindfolded and bound. He swayed a little bit as he walked, clearly hurting. “This fine specimen is from the distant icy coast of Hjalvorre, and is said to be as compliant and hardworking as a horse!” She paused to let the room get a good look at the slave. Next to me, my father sat up right a bit, paddle at the ready. “We’re going to start the bidding at ten thousand!”

 

A paddle went up in the distance. “Eleven!”

 

Another emerged. “Thirteen!”

 

More went up, climbing by the thousand each time. With every one that raised, my heart sank. That was… a lot of money. More money than my father may be willing to pay. I nervously glanced over at him to see him run a gloved hand down his face.

 

“Are _absolutely_ sure this is the one you want?” He asked me. I nodded violently, trying to convey just _how badly_ I wanted to rescue this one without looking overzealous; I didn’t want him to doubt my decision. Father sighed.

 

There was a moment of silence as the previous bid was placed for seventeen thousand. Vera, standing atop the balcony with a smug expression, was just about to call out the winner when my father raised his paddle beside me. “Twenty thousand.” He said.

 

Vera’s smile drew even wider. “Any contenders?” She asked loudly, waiting a few beats for a response. There was none. “ _Sold,_ to the Duke of Perran! An excellent purchase, sir!” She called out. The party members of the room clapped politely, congratulating my father, but all I could hear was the relieved roar of blood in my ears as I released a breath I had help for too long. Now I wanted nothing more than to get out of here. I slumped down in my seat, watching as Raven was forcibly pulled from the room, almost tripping over the shackles that connected his feet; the sight was sickening.

 

I just wanted to go home.

 

It must have been near midnight when guests started leaving. The slaves that I had presumed were being held in the back were already loaded up into their procurer’s carts and wagons by the staff: I had watched them from the second story window, seeing the outlines move in the faint torchlight below.

 

I climbed into my family carriage without the help of the server boy: I was bone tired from the endless noise and chatter, and wanted nothing but to go home. Already a deep and dark regret was setting in, a shame for what I've done at this party tonight. I should have just disappointed my father, gotten locked in my room again. Now there was a warm body in the back of the cart that I would be expected to treat like an _animal_.

 

“Here you are, dear. I took the liberty of picking these up for you.” I was pulled from my horrified reverie as my father held his hand out towards me as the carriage picked up speed into the night. I opened my palm, and he dropped a small silver key into it. _Raven’s manacle key._ I squeezed my eyes shut. Stupid. That would have been a disaster if I left the key at Duchess Vera’s

 

“I hope he’s worth every coin you’ve had me spend, girl.” Father chastised in a wine-soaked tone, turning towards the window and relaxing into the cushioned seats.

 

“Yes, papa.” I said quietly. “Thank you.”

 

We drove off into the night.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Already had a second chapter pre-written so I might as well post it now. (Leave a comment if you want me to continue this story.)

Carriage rides, with their gentle swaying, are normally comforting to me. But I couldn’t relax. I kept looking out the window on the back at the horse behind us, hauling the slaver caravan. I watched it nearly all the way home, tasting bile in the back of my throat. The key pressed into the flesh of my palm borderline painful. 

 

When we arrived home my father, having had quiet enough to drink, stumbled out of the caravan and into the mansion without even a ‘goodnight’. The door closed behind him and I knew I probably wouldn’t see him again for another week. He had no real investment in me. It would just be me, Monet, and that big empty house.  _ And a stranger _ . The thought struck me through with a bolt of anxiety as an aid helped me down from the carriage onto the cobblestone of the front yard. A few other slaves milled around in the warm spring air: leading the horses away, checking the carriage to make sure nothing was left inside. One, a dead-eyed older woman, cleared her throat behind me, bowing and gesturing towards the slaver caravan when I turned around.  

 

I tried to smile politely. I couldn’t bring myself to. 

 

I walked on nervous legs around to the back of the caravan, hands clasped tightly behind my back as I watched a middle-aged man unlock the heavy padlock on the back of the carriage. My stomach felt like it was filled with butterflies.  _ I can’t believe i’m fucking nervous about making a good first impression _ . What good impression was there to make when you were a monster who bought people like you would buy chickens, or a new shirt?

 

I waited anxiously as the man hoisted himself inside for a few moments before dragging out the man whose life I was now responsible for. His feet mad wobbly contact with the ground, knees almost buckling. In the quaking lamplight he looked even taller than he had on the pillar. My He and the older slave shuffled forward towards my paralyzed form. Raven was looking around blindly side to side…  _ he was still blindfolded _ . That little shock of anger send me walking forwards and pulling the slip of silk up and away from his head. 

 

Raven blinked hard in the light of the torches held aloft behind me. He barely glanced up in my direction before bowing his head in respect, shoulders hunched. I didn’t get much time to see it, but he most certainly had a black eye. The key burned in my palm, feeling like an accusation seared into my skin. 

 

Every inch I drew closer to the man he shrank back, stilling himself despite his struggle to stay upright. I numbly fumbled with his shackles that still connected his hands; they unlocked and clattered to the ground, leaving hard blistered rings around his bony wrists in their wake. He didn’t even move his arms to touch the wounds, electing to stay frozen on the spot. His bare feet looked bruised and painful standing on the cool stones, and a pang of guilt washed through my system.  _ I have to get him inside _ . 

 

“Follow me.” I told him. He nodded, the first reaction I had gotten from him. I turned heel, walking around the mansion towards the back entrance, away from the other slaves: I couldn’t stand their gazes on me. Their eyes were heavy with the weight of cruelty, of anger and sin. 

 

Storming through the halls felt like a dream, the low nighttime candle-light hazy as I passed, hearing nothing but the muffled slap of Raven’s footsteps behind me. I caught a reflection of both of us in the floor-to-ceiling mirror as we moved. Raven was dirty, there was no denying it. He was sweaty, bloody, and tired.  _ Okay, alright, okay _ . My mind was going a million miles an hour.  _ We get him upstairs we get him cleaned we go to bed. Then we figure this out tomorrow. Good plan? Good plan.  _

 

I marched myself up the wide flights of stairs until I was in my own hallway, ducking through the doorway to my private bath and lighting the oil lamp inside. The tub was already filled with hot water, still steaming. I whispered a mute  _ bless you, Monet,  _ before busying myself with gathering up some towels and a luxurious soap. When there was nothing else to do, I turned back to Raven. He was standing in the doorway, head still down. 

 

I swallowed hard. Starting now, it was my goal to make him safer. To prove to him that I wasn’t going to beat him, that I wasn’t going to kick him like a dog or watch him suffer in my stead. “You-” I coughed, mouth dry, “You’re a bit dirty, Raven. You should take a bath, then you can go to bed.” I gestured towards the tub.

 

“Yes, mistress.” He replied. It was the first time I heard him speak; he had a soft baritone voice, sweet and smokey like honey and myrrh. Right in front of me he began to robotically undress, pulling his shirt off over his head. My body twisted as I turned to look away, but stopped short in wide-eyed shock. His body, while lean and muscled, was underfed: he was thin enough that I knew he had felt the pain of hunger too often. Worse than that, his chest was littered in bruises, scrapes… bite marks. There was one, bright red and toothy, right under his collarbone. Deep enough that it bled and crusted over. I covered my mouth with my hand, gasping in shock. Raven’s head snapped towards me, the exhaustion that consumed his features morphing into wary worry. And there was, indeed, a large black bruise across his brilliant blue left eye. 

“Are you okay?” I couldn’t stop myself from saying, reaching out with hesitant fingers, resting them on his pectoral over the mark. Raven paled even further, stiffening under my touch. 

 

“Yes, mistress.” He said hoarsely. 

 

“You poor, poor man. Who did this to you?” I couldn't help the emotion working into my voice. My throat bobbed as I held back tears. The marks all over him, the  _ suffering  _ song they each sang… there was tragedy written into his skin. 

 

“I don’t know, mistress. I was blindfolded.” He answered in that same soft, non-combative tone. Emotionless. Close to broken.  _ Those monsters had hurt him and he couldn’t even fight back _ . The submission woven into his voice made my heart wrench.

 

I snatched my hand away before it could drift any further. He seemed to take that as permission to continue undressing. As his pants slid down around his hips they exposed more of the same thing, bruises and bites collected on his skin, his narrow hip bones and inner thighs. He finally dropped them, and I turned before he could remove his underwear. All I could do was awkwardly clutch the towel to my chest and listen to him walk across the tiles toward the bath. 

 

A small pained noise echoed through the bathroom, and I turned to see Raven facing away from me, one arm supporting himself on the wall as he lifted a leg up to get in the tub, his other hand clenched by his side. He was nude, but that was nothing I hadn’t seen before. In between the cheeks of his narrow ass, I caught of glimmer of silver.  _ What…?  _

 

“What’s that? Is something wrong?” I asked a little more sharply than I meant to, the rage bubbling inside me at the slave auctioneers emerging. 

 

“It’s- it’s nothing, mistress.” Raven replied quickly, trying to disengage and cover himself with his free hand. 

 

I took a step forward towards him. Something was wrong.  _ Something was wrong _ . “Raven, show me what’s wrong right this instant.” I said. It made my insides shift painfully to use the wicked power I had been given over him, but i’ll be damned if I let him suffer in silence anymore.

 

Raven stilled, bending his head forward in defeat. Another stab of pain to my gut: he registered orders so easily, was so quick to obey them. With his slender fingers he braced himself against the tub, and reached around towards his asshole. I could only stare in genuine horror as he pulled, slowly, with a few muffled noises of discomfort, a silver plug from himself about the size of an egg. Something followed it. Something trickled down his inner leg, white and thick and  _ too much, too much of it _ . 

 

I was finally pushed to tears. 

 

Raven turned around at the hiccup I tried to stifle, pupils contracting in fear as he saw the tears in the corner of my eyes. If  _ I  _ looked scared, it was  _ nothing  _ compared to his expression. 

 

“I’m sorry.” He said, taking a step forward. “I’m sorry.” He repeated, falling to his knees in front of me. He pressed his hands against the ground, head slung low. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry mistress, I’m sorry-” He kept repeating. His voice was low and harsh and utterly terrified. “Please don’t be mad, I tried to make them stop, I’m sorry-”. He was pious before me, thin and nervous and desperate.  _ He had displeased his master. He had made her cry.  _

 

“Raven, no, raven.” I said over his mantra of groveling, sinking down and running my hand through his hair, the only comforting gesture I knew of. It was what my mother used to do to me when I was young, and it was all I could give now. “ _ I’m  _ sorry, I truly am, I’m so sorry this happened to you. You’ve done  _ nothing  _ to deserve this.” 

 

Raven went stiff as a stature under my touch, terrified and closed-off and unsure of how to react towards the soft movements. He fell back into the habit of apologizing. “I know i’ve been soiled, mistress, I’m sorry, but I can still be of use to you, I  _ promise _ -” 

 

I shushed him softly, continuing to run fingers through his long hair. I was fighting every impulse to wrap this trembling man up in a hug, but I knew that for someone who’s very body was not their own it would be nothing but another violation. And I didn’t want to violate this man. 

 

_ But you do _ . The soft little voice in my head replied. The little voice I had stepped on, throttled, thought I had choked the life out of. 

 

I slammed the mental door in my head. 

 

“Come on. Let’s get you in the bath.” I said gently, tilting his head up with my fingers so he could see the honesty, the kindness in my expression. We stood together, shakily, my arm hard wrapped around his bicep as he wobbled to the bath.  _ Too hungry, too thin _ . He eventually sank into the warm water, still practically hiding his face behind his hair. I quietly handed him a bar of soap from my perch on the edge of the tub, facing away as he lathered and cleaned himself, the water going from crystal clear to murky brown. 

 

“I’m- going to go get you some clothing.” I said uncomfortably, practically fleeing the room. I hurried down the hallway, thoughts and feelings and anger swirling through my head and it was  _ so loud _ \- and then nearly collided face-first with Monet, the tray of milk and tea nearly flying out of her hands. She was bringing it up to me, ever the kind and considerate woman she was. 

 

“Maria… are you quite alright?” She said, seeing my wild expression and flushed cheeks. She barely had the time to set down the tray on a nearby coffee table before I flung my arms around her neck, taking solace in her friendship before spilling my guts about the horrors of the evening. Monet was all warm fingers and gentle comforting words, talking me down out of my near hysteric worrying and helping me find a tunic and leggings that Raven could probably wear. 

 

“This isn’t me,” I rambled at her uselessly as she searched a cabinet for men’s underclothes, “I’m not like this, i’m not a monster.”  _ I’m not my father.  _

 

Monet sighed and cupped my cheek, depositing a pair of briefs onto the pile of clothing I was holding. “Sweetheart, I  _ know _ . This wasn’t your choice. But at least he’s not in the hands of some lecherous man right now.” She paused, eyes distant. “The sex trade. I’m incredibly glad I wasn’t sold to someone with  _ those  _ proclivities.” Her gaze focused, and she clasped her hands together. “Bring those clothes to him. I’ll leave the tea on your nightstand and send for one of the kitchen workers to bring some food up to your room.” 

 

I grimaced in the low light of the nearby candelabra. “Can you bring it? I don’t want any of the others to see me with him. I don’t want them to think of me as someone who’s… like that.” 

 

“Oh alright,” She said, a comforting smile on her round face, “But only because I like you.” 

 

“You are amazing.” I called to her retreating form as she walked towards my bedroom. I can’t even  _ imagine  _ what my life would be like without Monet there. I would have been a very lonely and very sad little girl. 

 

With a sigh of resignation I turned on heel and headed back to the backroom, knocking on the door to give Raven some warning. “I’m coming in!” I called through the crack, pushing it open with a foot and depositing the clothes onto the countertop. Raven was still in the tub, having scrubbed himself immaculately clean, including his (now oil-free) hair. He didn’t do much but sit there, too gangly and tall for the little pool of water, his knees poking out of the surface like sticks. I thrust a towel out to him and he took it in one bony hand, drying himself and stepping out, shoulders still down and eyes still averted. When he was given clothing he went through the motions of dressing himself mechanically, emotionlessly. The silver plug glistened on the floor like an accusation. I kicked it away. 

 

“Come on.” I told him, holding the door open, “I’ll show you where I live.” 

 

Moments later we were at the other end of my hall, stepping inside of my room. The tea, as promised, was sitting on the little table in the middle of the library that swallowed half my room. Running on autopilot I removed my shoes, taking the barret out of my hair and moved across the room to sit in one of the two chairs at the table. Raven followed me. I waited, expecting to see him sit down in the chair across from me, but he never came. There was a gentle thump on the floor beside me. I turned to see Raven on his knees by the foot of my chair. 

 

I blinked in surprise once, twice. “Why… are you sitting there?” 

 

“I would never sit at your table, mistress, I promise. I know my place.” His tone was practiced, like he thought that by choosing his ‘proper place’ he had passed some sort of secret test. 

 

I blanched, stomach lurching, and quickly defaulted to a humorous tone to deflect the sharp anxiety and guilt that sentence provoked. “Are you sure? There is some crazy good food here, Raven.” I plucked up a small bite-sized scone from the tea tray, the vanilla frosting on it still tacky and not completely cooled. “This one is practically screaming ‘eat me’!” I held it out towards it, wiggling it a bit in a mock dance. 

 

He lifted his head in front of my knees, eyes sliding from mine and to the scone, and back. “May I?” He asked, tucking a thread of damp hair behind his tired eyes. 

 

I nodded, delighted in the tiny step forward that was him asking for something instead of answering to something. “Sure, there’s a ton on the...” My brain paused as Raven, gentle as a kitten, drew himself up closer to my lap and bit into the scone still held out in my hand, breaking off half of it and swallowing it quickly. My confusion made me hesitate, not pulling my hand away. He took the final bite, tongue grazing the side of my thumb and sending a tingle down my spine. I was just about to open my mouth and ask  _ what do you think you’re doing  _ when he came back a third time, latching onto one of my fingers and sucking the residual sweetness of the glaze off of it. My other hand flew to the armrest of my chair, gripping it in surprise as he continued to lap at my finger, moving his tongue to each individual one, sucking them hard and undulating his tongue against each. A dual stream of shame and arousal pooled in my stomach as I watched him take my fingers as deep as he could, his lips slick with spit and throat working hard as he swallowed around them. He took my wrist in one gentle hand and began to slowly run his tongue up the inside of my arm, his practiced finess making my cheeks flush.

 

Then his hair moved and I saw his eyes. His expression wasn’t hungry. It wasn’t aroused. It was the expression of someone pulling an overtime shift, someone trying to complete the final part of a job so they could go home and rest. It was the expression of someone resigned and practiced in their pattern of duties. He was  _ letting  _ me use his skilled mouth to pleasure myself. 

 

“Stop.” I said, but it came out silently. “Stop.” I tried again, louder this time. Raven’s tongue froze in place, withdrawing as he sank back to the floor.

 

“I didn’t ask you to do that.” I continued, shaken. 

 

“I’m sorry, Mistress, I assumed-” He said, eyebrows knitted in fear, “ _ Stupid _ -” He muttered to himself, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend… oh god, i’m sorry, please don’t, i’m  _ sorry _ -” Raven was working himself into another terrified panic. 

 

“It’s okay.” I pressed on. “I’m not going to ask you to do that again. I’m not going to bully you-” I reached out, touching the bruises and bites on his exposed collar, “I’m not going to make you touch me, and I’m sure as hell never going to  _ rape  _ you. I promise. I won’t let anyone hurt you again.” 

 

Raven sat still on the floor, looking stricken, panicked and unsure. 

 

“Now please… sit with me. Eat. I know you’re hungry.” 

 

He dragged himself to his feet like a kicked dog and slid into the chair opposite me, but didn’t touch the food. It took me pointedly gesturing to the scones for him to take one, scarfing it down in seconds as I poured him a cup of herbal tea. Thankfully that was the moment Monet backed in through the door with plates piled high with all sorts of dinner foods. I gave her an exhausted smile and a murmured thank you as she set them down in front of us both before beating a speedy retreat. I didn’t blame her. The air in here was thick with tension. 

 

I grabbed up a turkey drumstick and a buttery biscuit, tucking in to the delicious food with content before realizing Raven had his hands folded in his lap, watching me with a strained expression. He looked like a dog with a treat on its nose, desperately waiting for the command to eat it. 

 

I gestured with my drumstick towards his dinner. “Go on,” I said, swallowing a bit of biscuit, “It’s not a trap.”

 

With that Raven snapped into action. It would almost be comical, seeing him put food away into his stomach that fast, if it weren’t so heartrendingly sad. Within five minutes his laden plate have been cleared, and his teacup drained. I reached for the teapot to refill his drink. 

 

He paled. “Mistress, let me, please.” He said hurriedly, reaching over his plate and the tower of tea snacks to grab the pot. In his haste he elbowed his delicate china cup. It careened off the edge of the table and shattered the ground with the loudest noise in the universe. 

 

“Oops.” I said casually, tracking its demise before turning back to Raven. 

 

He looked like he was going to cry, eyes as wide as saucers and hand trembling, still reaching for the pot. Something crested over his expression, like a cloud on a sunny day. His face went blank, neutral, his eyes the same dead and unpanicked they had been when he first got out of the carriage. Wordlessly, Raven stood up from his seat, padded over to me, and got down on his hands and knees, pulling his shirt off and exposing his back.

 

“May I be punished, please, Mistress.” He said dully. His shoulder blades rose and fell with each slow breath, carved like wings against the bones of his back. 

 

I dropped my fork with a clatter, more focused on the skin of his back than what he was saying. All across his alabaster skin were marks of abuse. Long thin strikes of a whip. Dull mottled scars of cane blisters. Cigar burns.  _ Blade marks _ . 

 

My gaped like a fish. “I’m not- Raven, i’m not going to punish you. You broke a teacup!” I said, aghast. 

 

His back undulated, a crackled sob wracking his wrecked body. His abused bones, his tortured skin. “Please, Mistress. Please. I need to be punished.” His words were muffled, filtering through his long hair. 

 

It made my throat clench to see him like this. It had been bred into him, _burned_ into him, to want and to _need_ punishment for mistakes. His voice was desperate, the patterned engraved so deeply into his psyche. He needed to be _hurt_ to feel better. 

 

_ You want to hurt him _ . The voice was back. I waved it away, dissipating it like smoke through my fingers. 

 

“...Alright. Okay. Alright.” I said shakily, tucking my hair behind my ears. Raven’s head lifted slightly and I gesture for him to come to me. He crawled closer, resting his head against my thigh with my hand to guide it.  _ I have no idea what i’m doing,  _ I thought shakily to myself. 

 

“It was only a teacup, Raven. It was only a teacup.” I try and comfort him, but he just shifts and buries his face deeper into my dress-covered leg, holding his own hands behind himself and exposing his back and shoulders. 

 

“I’m only going to do five, okay? Just five.” I was talking more my sake than his, resting my left hand on his bony shoulder. I was about to hit a man for breaking a teacup after he begged me to. I was nauseated, but worse than that…  _ I was excited _ . 

 

I raised my hand, bringing down a stinging slap to his upper back. “Thank you.” He said hoarsely. 

 

I slapped his back again, the sound of flesh being hit cracking through the room. “Thank you.”

 

_ Smack _ . “Thank you.”

 

_ Smack _ . “Thank you.”

 

The final blow hit him on top of his already tender and red flesh, and he lurched forward with a wanton moan, fingers clenching and unclenching behind his back. “Thank you, Mistress. I’m sorry, Mistress.” He chanted, voice rough as he drew himself away from my body. 

 

I ran both hands down my face and squeezed my eyes shut, desperately trying to block out the echoes of skin hitting skin: of how delicious and tantalizing that sound was. Of how I wanted to do it again, and again. “Okay, Raven, I think it’s time for bed.” I said exhaustedly, still keeping my eyes closed. 

 

“Yes, Mistress.” He echoed. I heard the shift of fabric as he rose, the soft footfalls as he bee-lined towards my bed. Only when he was around the corner in the bedchamber area of my room did I open my eyes. Was he… sleeping here? Was that something that was just decided? I puzzled over that notion as I puttered over to my changing screen, stripping out of my dress and slipping on a nightgown. My head was just too  _ full  _ to be able to coherently make decisions about anything else. 

 

I wandered over to my enormous bed, automatically blowing out the many candles that decorated the room until just one tiny oil lantern on my nightstand was lit. I dimmed it a bit, running my hands through my hair and shaking it out before turning to the bed. The sight I was greeted with made me flush from my head to the tips of my toes. 

 

“Raven WHY are you naked.” I blurted out, voice cracking. 

 

Raven was perched in the middle of the canopy bed, atop the covers, completely nude. He rested on his knees, holding himself up with one arm and using his other to slowly pump at his cock. From this perspective, in the dim light, I could make out the constellations of bites across his skin, the bruises that speckled his torso and legs but never his beautiful face. His mouth hung open, the beginning of a flush dusting his high cheekbones. He looked up at me with those crystalline blue eyes, a genuine hunger in them that I knew with a sinking feeling was put there by the abuse I had just rained down on him. 

 

“You said get to bed. I’m preparing myself for you, Mistress.” His voice was thick. 

 

I was hypnotized by the rhythmic rock of his skinny hips into his waiting palm, the tip of his cock red and glistening as disappeared between his fingers. I grabbed handfuls of my nightgown, opening my mouth to tell him,  _ you don’t have to do this, you’re not with someone who will do this to you anymore, you don’t have to _ -

 

Raven held his hand out to me, reaching towards me. A plea. A need. 

 

_ Fuck. A girl can only resist so much _ . 

 

I clambered onto the bed, pressing my lips against his. He tasted like blood and turkey and chamomile tea, and he groaned enthusiastically into it. His hands left his own cock, running up and down my waist and kneading the flesh around my hips, my thighs. I bit down on his lower lip, hard. He shook under me, sending a bolt of arousal straight to my hungry sex. With gentle hands I peeled his fingers away from me, willing myself with all my might not to sink into what those long digits promised. Raven’s eyes opened, looking at me with hazy confusion. I held myself over him, letting him lower himself onto his back under me. 

 

“Let me.” I whispered, watching his mouth go from a kiss-bruised line to an ‘o’ of pleasure as I snaked a hand between us to softly tug at his swollen cock. The heat was almost scalding in my hand. 

 

“Mistress…” He groaned, grabbing at the covers, “Please…”. He seemed torn up, enjoying the hand around his prick but wanting something more.

 

“Yes, Raven. What do you need.” I replied, biting at his lips, tugging them with teeth. 

 

“Hurt me.”

 

That breathy plea made my strokes slow, made me pull my face away from him. He looked up at me with a drunk expression, high on the hand on his cock, the pain from his back. It felt like a needle had been pressed into the center of my chest as I realized what this was.  _ This is what his life is to him. He is a fuck toy. This, to him, is the very core of his being.  _ Some sick bastard, some  _ twisted evil  _ horrible bastard has interwoven his pleasure with his pain since the day he was enslaved. He was aroused by my punishment, got off on his injuries. And now he was  _ pleading  _ to be hurt more. 

 

_ Do it _ . The little voice was back, whispering sharply in the back of my skull,  _ Do it, you want to, hurt him, slap him, touch him, fuck him _ -

 

“Okay.” I whispered unevenly, and wrapped a hand around his throat. Raven’s mouth split into a blushing smile of relief and pleasure as I pressed a hand on his narrow neck, pushing it down into the covers and stroking his cock with fervor. 

 

“Thank you.” His voice was strained as he started to choke, arching his narrow hips up into my grip and shaking, twisting the comforter around him in a white-knuckled grip. He looked goddamn  _ gorgeous _ . I wanted to make him cum, make his lithe and damaged form spasm and buck. I bit at his ear, then his collar, then his nipple, sucking hard enough to bruise. 

 

“Thank you, thank you, thank you-” He gasped and grunted, voice cutting off abruptly as he came. His whole form locked up, mouth opening wide as he spilled his seed across my palm, arcing into the air and splattering against my embroidered covers. I stroked him until his face began to twist and pucker, hips wriggling at the overstimulation.  _ God i’m wet _ . I thought to myself, feeling the slick of my own fluids against my underwear. But that could wait. Now the guilt and horrible horny shame was cresting over me like a wave, smashing down on my conscious. I had touched this broken and hungry man, using his body like so many had done before me. 

 

_ I’m no better than the rest _ . 

 

_ I have to be better than the rest _ . 

 

I was so caught up in my own swirling self-hatred that I almost didn’t catch Raven rolling over on his side, lapping up the cum he had dirtied the sheets with before turning his exhausted body back to me, fingers moving to pull my night dress up. 

 

“No.” I said quickly, catching them as they held the hem of my dress. 

 

Raven looked up at me with those empty, exhausted eyes. He had finished his night shift; his duties were over. He had done exactly what he had been trained to do. He deserved rest.

 

“You don’t have to- just sleep, Raven. Please. Get some rest.” I held his hand softly in mine. “God knows we have a lot to discuss in the morning.”

 

Raven licked his lips, unsure but compliant. “As you wish, Mistress.” And with that he was pulling his tunic back over his head and crawling under the covers. 

 

I joined him uneasily, ignoring my throbbing sex. I couldn’t even bring myself to think about touching myself after all that had happened today. After the sick feeling in my stomach of what I had done to the man next to me. I twisted the oil lamp dial off. 

 

“Goodnight, Raven.” I said in the black shadows. 

 

“Goodnight, Mistress.” Came the robotic and subdued reply. 

 

The crickets from the open window filled the night air as the world slumbered. I did not. I stayed awake, turning away from the stranger in my bed and listening to his even breathing, desperately wishing this was all some sort of bad dream that would dissipate under the morning sun. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm gonna throw enough angst at this boy to turn him into a Hot Topic. (As always, lemme know in the comments if you want another chapter.)

 

I snuck out of my room before Raven had the chance to wake up, grabby a cozy overcoat and  seeking solace and shelter in the familiar clatter of pans and sounds of cooking in the staff kitchen. Monet sat with me outside the kitchen’s service door on the stairs, drinking tea and watching the sun rise in somber silence. I felt bad knowing that Raven would probably wake up alone in a stranger’s room, but at the same time… I almost couldn’t face him. Couldn’t stand the cold submission in his gaze, the jutting angles of his abused body sitting in my sheets. 

 

The guilt eventually goaded me into returning, bringing a tiny wicker basket with fresh sliced bread and knob of churned butter up with me. I opened the door slowly, willing it not to creak and hoping against all hope that Raven was still sleeping. He wasn’t. He watched me come in the door with those sharp and clouded eyes, sitting ramrod straight against the pillows in the bed. 

 

“...Good morning.” I hazarded, voice feeling like a siren in the early morning silence. 

 

“Good morning, mistress.” He replied in that same subdued tone.

 

I stepped a little further into the room, feeling awkward in just my nightdress and large coat to guard against the chill. I held out the basket of bread and butter uncomfortably. “I brought you breakfast.”

 

“Thank you, Mistress.” Raven slid out of bed, and I winced at the sight of his bruised and bitten legs as he put his discarded pants back on. He crossed the room, accepting the basket without making eye contact, and sunk to his knees to eat. I opened my mouth to protest, and shut it with a resigned clack. Telling him to eat at the table felt like a hopeless endeavor: someone had clearly relentlessly trained him to eat on the ground, like an animal.  _ I wonder if that’s how he feels, all the time _ , I thought, hands clutched nervously at my sides,  _ like a dog in a room full of humans.  _

 

I busied myself as he practically shoved the bread down his throat. There were books to put away, dishes to stack and leave outside the door, poetry papers to organize. But eventually there was nothing left to do, leaving me to stand quietly by the window, watched Raven out of the corner of my eye and pretending to examine the cover of a novel. In the morning light that began to stream through the window, the scrapes and bruises on his knuckles were even more visible as he brought another slice of bread to his hungry mouth. He was hurt, and he was hungry.

 

“...I’m sorry.” I said, throat tight. When I got no reaction, no response but him slowing the pace of his eating, I turned away to face the window. I tightened by fingers around the novel, that familiar nausea creeping into my stomach. “I’m sorry about I did last night. You were- you were sick, you were  _ exhausted _ and trying to keep yourself safe. I put you in a new environment, and I took advantage of that. I’m really sorry.”

 

“Please do not be, mistress.” Came his quiet reply after a moment of silence, “You acted normally.”

 

I turned around, incredulous. “ _ Normally _ ? I bought you like a lamp, forced you into my home, then-  _ touched  _ you like that. There’s  _ no  _ part of that that’s normal,  _ no  _ part of that that was even  _ partly  _ consensual.” 

 

“I am yours, Mistress, do what you will. Please don’t be upset.” 

 

His softly-worded and de-escalating response only made me more upset. I ran a hand through my hair in exasperation, making a frustrated clenching motion with my fists. Raven flinched at the abrupt movement. “That’s exactly my problem! You shouldn’t even be ‘mine’! You’re a fucking person, and you’re down on your knees like a dog!”

 

“I am your slave, Mistress, I am not a person. Don’t- don’t think of me as such. This is who I am, who I will always be.” There was a notable level of tension in his voice now, his fingers gripping the fabric of his pants as he continued to kneel and avoid my eyes. 

 

“Stand up.” I said, voice beginning to warble with irritation, “Stand up right now, Raven. Talk to me like a  _ human being _ .” 

 

He couldn’t bring himself to disobey a direct order. I couldn’t tell if I was pleased or sicked that that was so, as he drew himself up on his slender legs, lifting his head and looking at me with that haunted hollow gaze, eyes wide like a frightened fawn. 

 

“Are you really so  _ blind _ that you can’t see this is wrong?” I had to stop myself from yelling it as loudly as I wanted to. Raven still flinched, eyes screwing up.  _ I just want him to talk! To speak back to me! To say  _ _ anything  _ _ that’s not just to placate me!  _ “Can’t you see how fucked up this is, how disgusting it is in every way? Aren’t you angry?” I was borderline livid, thoughts and emotions and repressed anger all swirling up under my chest like a snowglobe. If I felt this unhappy dragged around by my family my whole life, then  _ he  _ must feel even madder than I. “Well?!  _ Answer  _ me!”

 

“ _ I can’t change this _ .” 

 

My jaw slammed shut at Raven’s reply, his voice hoarse with anxiety, with fear and confusion and hopelessness. He was nearly trembling in front of me, face pale and bloodless. “I  _ cant _ \- I can’t change this, Mistress. I don’t know what you want from me, I don’t-” His hands went to his head, weaving into his hair as he spoke, looking borderline manic, “-I don’t know what you  _ want  _ from me just tell me what to  _ do _ , I can’t change this, I’m sorry, I can’t change this.”

 

I didn’t want this. I wanted him to be angry, to react like a  _ person _ , not like an automaton trying to multiply zero times zero, spiraling in on itself in a whirlpool of unanswerable questions.

 

“Do you even hear yourself? Are you so damaged that you can’t see what’s been  _ done  _ to you?!” I spluttered, genuinely upset and gesturing wildly at his abused body. 

 

“ **YES** !” Raven yelled. A genuine rough scream, loud enough to hurt my ears this close to him- a scream full of rage. Raven froze, bringing a hand down to cover his mouth in shock, his expression steadily filling with dawning horror at his own outburst. “Sorry.” He whispered, slowly sinking down to his knees, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry-” He sounded like he was on the edge of hyperventilation.

 

I swallowed as I gazed upon this display of sadness, but found my mouth dry. This,  _ this _ , was the product of anger, of fear, of hurt and pain and suffering.  _ I can’t treat him like a normal person until he feels like one _ . Ever so slowly I brought myself to my own knees, resisting the urge to reach out, to comfort. He doesn’t take physical touch like I do; to him, contact was an order to be fulfilled, to be listened to whether he wanted to or not. His words echoed in my mind.  _ I can’t change this _ . I squeezed my eyes shut, hands on my knees. Stupid, stupid, stupid Maria: of  _ course  _ this would only serve to wind him up. What was the point of ranting about my idealistic fantasies to someone with no power to change them? They would only serve to sting wounds that had been opened a thousand times before. 

 

“It’s okay, Raven, it’s okay,” I said whisper-soft, matching his soft and repeated chanting apologies, “It’s okay, it’s okay, I’m not mad.”

 

Eventually his manic repentance quieted but he still sat there hunched over like a pleading child, face pressed into the palms of his own hands. We crouched on the floor together in silence for a good ten minutes, him trying to steady his breath, me still quietly repeating that I wasn’t angry, I truly wasn’t. 

 

When my legs started to prickle from pins-and-needles I creakily stood up, padding softly away to slip into a simple cotton dress and walking shoes. I returned and found Raven in the same position as before, but felt none of the rush of irritation I used to feel; just a quiet acceptance. “Okay, big guy.” I said softly, holding out a hand, “Come on. Let’s get some fresh air.” 

 

Raven looked up at me through his curtain of hair, at my extended hand, and after a moment of hesitation, took it and let me help him up. I handed him a pair of simple leather shoes Monet had found last night that looked roughly normal-man sized. After a moment of letting him slip them on, fumbling with the little buckles, I turned heel and slowly ambled out the door, down the winding low-lit halls, and out the door to the massive mansion. 

 

As soon as our feet touched the front courtyard stones I inhaled in gentle enjoyment, drinking in the early spring sunlight. The birds chirped in the manicured trees like hundreds of tiny bells, and the air was sweet and laden with the scent of pollen and blooming wild rose. It was a much better scene than that of the inside of that empty house. Father’s carriage was, as predicted, gone. He was probably at the castle by now, and would remain there for days on end. But the news that my father didn’t care for me beyond how I impacted his social image was hardly new news.  _ Even if it still stung.  _ But I refused to let my face fall, to feel anything other than passive pleasure at the lovely weather as I straightened my bodice and walked across the courtyard towards the country lane around the corner. 

 

“Spring mornings in the Vermillion countryside are lovely,” I said conversationally to Raven, who lagged behind me a bit to my left, “I thought a change of scenery would do us both good.” We passed the horse stables and eventually turned onto the unpaved and hedge-lined road. 

 

Raven said nothing. 

 

I craned my head to the side to see him with his hands held tightly behind his own back, expression schooled into that same submission neutrality he always tried to have. With a twirl I was facing him yet continuing to walk backwards at the same pace I had before. “Are you a big fan of nature walks?” I asked, keeping my tone as casual and non confrontational as possible. Every question had to be unloaded and light; that was the only way Raven wouldn’t try and guess what the ‘right’ answer was. 

 

“No, Mistress, walking is nice.” He said, eyes flicking up and meeting mine for a fraction of a second before darting to the dirt again. The tip of his tongue wet his lower lip. “I am just… not used to being… taken places.” 

 

“Hmm? What do you mean?” I asked.  _ I knew what he meant _ . 

 

He looked uncomfortable for a fraction of a second. “My skillset is in the bedroom. There was no need to take me outside.”

 

We walked down the road in silence, me backwards and him with a low-hung head, as the weight of the sentence sunk in. He was just kept in a room and used like a toy.  _ And he had accepted that that’s what he was for.  _ The thought was painful. I bit the inside of my cheek, trying not to think too hard about it right now. 

 

“Well, from here on out, you’re going anywhere I go. I’ll show you as much stuff as you want to see. Feel free to ask me, if there is anywhere you specifically want to go.” I replied.

 

Then I was falling. Something hard caught the heel of my shoe and I was flying backwards through the air the like the world’s worst swan, slamming onto my back on the hard-packed country road. My breath left my chest with a harsh wheeze as pain blossomed in my head. 

 

“Mistress!” Raven called in alarm, running to when I had fallen and scrambling to his knees, “Are you alright?” 

 

I looked up at him and his worried pale face, and gave a low groan and a slow thumbs up. “Did I look as graceless as I felt? I feel like I did.” I said, accepting Raven’s held out arm and hauling myself to my feet, taking a moment to dust my dress off. There was a thick drag mark of dirt across the back of the skirt. Dammit. That just meant more work for Monet and the others. 

 

“I’m sorry, I should have been watching, I should have caught you.” Raven said, hands held nervously at his sides. 

 

I sighed, stretching out my back. “It’s fine. Not your fault. I would have been more surprised if you had psychic powers to foresee that.” 

 

We continued to walk with the gentle slopes and curves of the foliage-lined road, just enjoying the sun peeking through the leaves and the hum of bees waking from their lethargic rest. I picked at a swath of dirt on my sleeve, trying to scrape as much of it off as I could with my fingernails. 

 

“...Mistress.” Raven said quietly behind me. 

 

“Mmm?” I answered, still distractedly trying to pull the mud from my clothing. 

 

“You wanted me to tell you if what… I am, bothers me.”

 

I quit my idle picking and slowed my step to fall into line with his gait. “Yeah, I did.” I answered softly. “But I don’t want you to feel like you have to respond just because I did. I know that I- well, I tried to make you talk about topics that you probably haven't had an owner talk about before. I understand if I poked a sore spot.” 

 

Raven nodded, ever avoiding my eyes, seeming to walk with more care and practiced fluidity now that I was beside him. It was several minutes of silence before he spoke again. “I… fought. A lot. For nine years.” He admitted to me. 

 

I didn’t press for more details though my head was swirling with very personal questions: he looked like he was violently uncomfortable with discussing this already. I chose my response carefully. “Why did you stop.”

 

He smiled: a tight and humorless thing, something I could tell he had used to placate and dispel tension in the past. “I got tired. And,” He turned his head back away from me, facing the ground once more, “I found that saying yes usually stops them from getting too violent.”

 

I felt like someone had slapped me across the face. He had just given up so when people took him,  _ used  _ him, they wouldn’t hurt them as badly.  _ Usually _ . I blinked back tears and angled my own head away; the last thing I wanted to do was make him freak out and apologize again. There was no answer I could give to what he had just told me, no direct comfort. We both already knew that it  _ sucked _ , we both already knew I was sorry. All I could offer were empty condolences. 

 

The air felt thick as we reached the winding crossroads at the bottom of a little tree-filled valley that marked about a mile from my home. I was ready to turn around and head back: the only thing beyond this point were more groves of trees and more hedges, nothing we hadn’t already seen. I slowed as I reached the worn wooden sign, running my fingers along one of it’s carved arrows that pointed down the road and read ‘Vermillion City: Eight Miles’. “So,” I tried to spark conversation once again as I slowly retraced my steps, heading back, “What’s the weather like in Hjalvorre?”

 

“I don’t know, Mistress. I’ve never been.”

 

I frowned in confusion. “... Weren’t you born there?”  _ That’s what it said on your description at the slave auction _ . I decided to leave that part out. 

 

Raven gave an honest-to-god amused  _ huff _ , and my eyes widened: that was the first  _ positive  _ noise I had ever heard him make! “People interested in my skills like a little exotic mystery, it seems. I would have played the part of foreign beauty if I needed to.”

 

“What part are you playing right now?” I hoped he could hear the light-hearted tone of my question despite how desperately I wanted an honest answer. 

 

He was silent for a moment, skirting a patch of flowering weeds that had slowly grown outwards onto the road. “The part where I try to understand what it is you want from me.” 

 

I opened my mouth to respond, but pulled my head back, holding a hand up and listening to a sound in the distance. Low, and faint, but undeniable: hoofbeats. I slowly turned to look down the now well-lit road we had just walked, and saw a rapidly approaching dot. 

 

“Oh no,” I groaned in exasperation, “Please don’t be…”

 

The carriage drew closer and closer and as it did more details emerged: the two white-socked horses, the shining gold filigree it was edged in, the fast pace it was keeping. Soon it was upon us, and I stood stiffly at the side of the road as it raced past in a clatter of hooves and turning wheels, leaving a cloud of dust in its wake. It hadn’t even bothered to slow. I coughed, waving the particles away with squinted eyes. 

 

“Do you know who that was, Mistress?” Raven asked from his respectful position behind me. 

 

I grimaced. “That,” I said with a final cough, “Was my mother. A terrible person who I am going to have no choice but to interact with now.” I felt deflated. This day was shaping up to be good at first! I had a nice walk, made a little progress with Raven… now I was going to be forced to deal with  **Her** . I sighed and began a resigned trudge down the road, feet stomping with a little more force than necessary. 

 

“I'm sorry to hear that.” He replied, a little bit of sympathy in his voice. 

 

“What, you have a horrible mother too?” I said without thinking. I didn’t catch what I said until it was too late, the question already out there.  _ Stupid idea, asking an enslaved man about the family he was forced to leave behind.  _

 

“Yes. She sold me to slavers.” 

 

I choked on my own inhale with a violent noise, stopping to bend over and pound my own chest. I  _ instantly  _ felt like the world’s worst person. “Oh my god,” I finally coughed out once I could breathe properly, “I’m sorry. Shit. That  _ sucks _ .” 

 

Raven said nothing, back to that rigid and submission pose. Once again I had succeeded in pushing the conversation too far, leaving him to retreat back into his blank and easily-commanded self. 

 

“I… yeah. Okay.” I shifted self-consciously. “Let’s, uh. Let’s go home.” 

 

We continued back to the mansion, sun now flooding the landscape in spring warmth. The air was fresh and hot, but I could not have felt more cold. I was more chilled over anything else by how easily Raven went back to that pushed-around eager-to-please mentality; and the fact that he would have no problem acting like that around me for the duration of time that I had him. He was perfectly ready to obey, to sit on the ground, to be locked in a room and wait to be used. He  _ expected  _ that. 

 

I tried to push these thoughts out of my mind as we made it back to the mansion, Mother’s carriage already being led away by a few slaves. It took me a few moments outside of the massive doors to compose myself, running some fingers through my hair and straightening my shoes, hoping the dirt stains on my dress didn’t look  _ that  _ bad when I knew they did. I pushed the doors open with a loud creak, glancing back at Raven one last time before I entered the dark hallway. His head was down, back ramrod straight and hands clasped in front of himself. 

 

I walked into the entryway. 

 

As soon as my eyes were adjusted to the darkness, Monet seemed to materialize in front of me. Her brow was knitted in anxiety. “You’re mother’s here.” She said. 

 

“I know.” I replied tensely. 

 

“She’s waiting for you in the lounge.” 

 

I gave a nod of thanks for the heads up, and Monet scurried away back to the kitchen, trying to get away from the ominous vibe that seemed to pour from the hall that lead towards my mother. With a deep inhale I straightened my back and headed deeper into the mansion, just wanting to get this over with. 

 

I found my mother relaxing on a low couch in front of an enormous glass window, reclining with her arm propped up against the armrest. Surrounding her were three slaves: one with his forearms resting on the back of the couch, slowly feeding grapes into her open mouth, another resting on his shins on the floor with his head resting against her legs, and the third putting all his attention into massaging her feet. Mother smiled up at the slave feeding her, and he giggled musically as he deposited another grape onto her waiting tongue. She heard me enter the room, but only slowly turned her head towards me when I crossed the carpeted floor and stood right in front of her, only feet away. 

 

“Maria.” She said, voice neutral and expression inscrutable. 

 

“Mother.” My tone was respectful. I clasped the hems of my dress and dipped into a deep curtsy. “You’re back from Vanderwald. I didn’t expect you for another two weeks.” 

 

“Duchess Viola had some important family matters come up. I found it prudent to excuse myself before they could get me involved in their useless drama.” She drawled, her ring-encrusted fingers idly stroking the hair of the slave by her legs. 

 

_ You love drama _ , I bit back, electing to nod understandingly instead. 

 

Mother’s eyes looked me up and down, catching on the steak of dirt. Her lip sneered. “What did you do this time?” She said in a haughty voice. 

 

I gripped the fabric of my dress a little more tightly. “Nothing, mother, I just slipped and fell.” 

 

She sighed, oozing disappointment. “You haven't been a sniveling child in  _ years _ yet you still manage to dirty just as much laundry as you did back then.” Mother delicately placed two fingers on the bridge of her nose. With this exasperated expression she looked like a warped funhouse-mirror version of father. They were so alike in their mannerisms: that was probably why they despised one another. 

 

The slave massaging mother’s foot set it down gentle, picking up her other stocking-clothed leg. Out of nowhere mother’s other leg came up, kicking him across the jaw with a  _ crack  _ that echoed across the room. “The first one wasn’t finished.” She said, looking disinterested. The slave, who had been flung back from the attack, snapped back to his original position like a marionette and took up her foot once more. His eyelashes were wet with unshed tears at the pain he had just experienced. 

 

I couldn’t help myself; my anger showed in the tense muscles in my jaw and the knitting of my brow. Seeing her  _ abuse  _ someone so casually, like she was waving away a bothersome insect, filled me with bubbling ire. But letting my emotions get to me was a mistake. She looked up from her seat and I didn’t wipe my disgusted expression away fast enough. Mother latched onto it like a hunting dog spying an injured rabbit across the field. 

 

“You’re not still like  _ that _ , are you?” She said in exasperation, rolling her eyes. “Maria,  _ this  _ sort of thing-” She paused to jump to her feet, grab the masseuse slave by the lapel, and shove him to the floor, “-Shouldn’t bother you anymore, darling. You can’t be so unreasonable all your life.” 

 

“Mother.” I said, almost pleading with her.  _ Be angry at me,  _ my undertone said,  _ not with him _ . 

 

That only seemed to irritate her more. She lifted a leg, kicking the slave over. He didn’t try to get up. She put a foot down on top of his head, pressing it into the floor. 

 

“Mother,  _ please _ .” My voice broke as my throat closed, focused on the man below her. His expressed was smashed into carpet, but I could still see the prey-like fear in his eyes. 

 

“He doesn’t matter. He’s expendable. This is part of our  _ culture _ , Maria. Stop being such a coward.” Her eyes were cold glass behind her heavy makeup. Sharp, dangerous: predatory. 

 

“Stop it!” I cried aloud, tears pricking at my eyes. After a terse moment of her staring me down, her two other slaves frozen behind her, she lifted her foot. The slave stayed down, chest rising and falling incredibly fast in terror. My vision swam.  _ I did this. I did that to him. I disappointed mother and she punished him for it _ . 

 

“Pathetic.” Mother said, coldly, looking down her nose at me. She snapped her manicured fingers and her three slaveboys scrambled to their feet in a posse behind her. “I’m going to unpack the gifts from Vanderwald then take the carriage into the city. Do try not to ruin another dress before I leave.” 

 

I stood frozen, shaking, as she brushed past me, the fabric of our dresses sliding together. Neither I nor Raven moved as she and her boys exited the room, waiting stiffly in the silence until their echoing footsteps faded to nothing, and a distant door slammed. As soon as I was sure she was gone, that I was  _ safe _ , I sank down, sitting on the edge of the low coffee table in the middle of the room. My throat worked furiously, desperately trying to keep the tears at bay. I looked up at Raven with my red and swollen eyes. His gaze was averted, expression shut down. His words came back to haunt me. 

 

_ ‘I am yours, mistress, do as you will _ ’. He hadn’t even seen anything wrong with what had just happened. 

 

In the big empty room of the mansion that didn’t feel like home, I cried defeated tears into the palms of my dirty hands. 


End file.
